


just standing in the fire, melting time

by brianbrain



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Angst, Dysphoria, Eating Disorders, I got bored, Multi, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23402206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brianbrain/pseuds/brianbrain
Summary: he can't see, but he knows.-----mostly just because i was bored and was going to actually write something fluffy, but then i forgot what it was. i have no idea what i'm doing, and am just projecting the hell outta myself. extremely ambiguous piece.
Kudos: 18





	just standing in the fire, melting time

at some point, the numbers loose their meaning. five, ten, thirteen, eighteen, twenty-one.

they're just simple measurements of time, of weight, of money, of useless things. for example, he's almost twenty-two now. that means he has lived around eight thousand and thirty five and a half days.

this is also known as a hundred ninety-two thousand and eight hundred fifty-two hours, or eleven million, five hundred and seventy one thousand and a hundred and twenty minutes.

in the end, that boils down to six hundred and ninety-four million, two hundred sixty-seven thousand, and two hundred seconds.

but really, what is a second? why does the passage of it define that he has grown? why is he first thrown to the curb at school at five years, and then shifted to another when he's ten, then thirteen, and the biggest one when he's eighteen?

why does he get to vote when he's eighteen, and drink when he's twenty-one?

three-thirty-one, says the clock, as he toasts himself on his six hundred and ninety-four million, two hundred sixty-seven thousand, and two hundredth second of existence outside the womb.

he drinks the bubbly concoction in one gulp, tilting back his head. it is dark in his room, and he can only see the faint outline of the sofa, the table, the door, the window with the blinds.

three-thirty-two, says the clock, as he stretches out on the couch. it is sticky with the scent of iron, but he does not mind.

three-thirty-three, says the clock, as his eyes droop closed.

three-thirty-five, says the clock, and his heart stops.

they say that when you die, you relive all of your life within seven minutes. he had always been curious if this meant your perception of time sped up (or was it slowed?) to fit all of your life within those seven minutes.

he has to say, he will never quite answer that.

* * *

the boys get home at three-thirty-seven a.m.

he is not sure how he knows this, but he does know that chan was the one who opened the door, letting in wreathes of alcohol. he was also probably the only one who was completely sober.

he does know that seungmin was the one who turned on the lights, and jeongin was the one who saw him first.

it wasn't like he was there, but he knew. he could taste their fear, sense their foreboding. he could feel them touching him, hear the shock in their voices, but he couldn't see.

perhaps that's why, at first, they thought he might just be sleeping, but blood doesn't lie.

by the time the clock ticks to three-thirty-eight, changbin has called for an ambulance. blue and red lights dance across his face.

woojin doesn't get to reach the seven minutes. he doesn't relive anything, or maybe it was because he knew he wouldn't die.

_a hundred seventy-nine, a hundred eighty, a hundred eighty-one_

* * *

at three-fourty-two, woojin breathes. it is deemed a miracle. he should be dead. he opens his eyes an hour later, but he still cannot see. they do not know this; his eyes apparently look fine.

"why'd you do it?" chan asks him.

the room is empty and sterile. the others are outside. he pokes the bandages wrapped around his wrists.

he cannot see his hyung's face, but he knows which way to look.

"have you never thought about it?" he counters, sitting up.

he remembers the boy in the recording center, forty minutes to midnight. two minutes later leads to days of stress, of working late. of asking each other things like this two hundred and twenty-two minutes into a new day.

"you know i have."

"then you know why i did it."

* * *

they're only allowed in one at a time, but felix and hyunjin come together. a pair of dancers.

felix has cried. he sniffs, and asks, "are you going to be okay?"

"will you?"

there's no response. he supposes felix is crying again, and they leave with the soft whoosh of the door.

* * *

minho looks in, balks, and immediately leaves. he knows the majority of them are like minho, too scared to come see him, especially after felix's reaction.

besides, they're all drunk.

* * *

changbin comes in, and sits on the white chair.

"is this why you went home?"

it's not accusatory, per se, but woojin feels like it might be.

"maybe," he says.

"after a day of nothing but dance and a week of no food, you went home from your own birthday night to go slit your wrists and sleep on the couch."

woojin lets the silence hang. it's an indisputable statement, after all.

"i didn't know you hated that couch so much," changbin finally says, always one for humor, and woojin laughs weakly.

"i think i just hate the numbers."

* * *

his seven minutes are up. woojin feels tears, sliding slowly down his cheeks. they are a weak assault against the phantom flames, licking up his arms. he is alone this time.

it was always doomed to burn from the start; that is, his life. you don't get good results, growing up in a house full of screaming and smashed bottles of antiseptic-worthy liquid. you don't get good results, pulling all nighters in empty, wood-floored rooms surrounded by a mirror. you don't get good results, skipping meals to squish into a closet with a keyboard. you don't get good results, running for hours on end, letting the numbers stack up, or drop, depending on how you play things.

in the end, it all goes up in smoke, and you take the numbers with you.

woojin feels his lips quirk up as keys jangle outside.

time melts. it doesn't necessarily slow, stop, or get faster. it just melts.

at three-thirty-seven, chan opens the door, and woojin simultaneously holds the hands of eight different people, eight brothers, in seven different instances.

for that intensely brief moment, they're whole again.


End file.
